Red Phoenix (50 page)

The others pulled waterproofed packs out of the boat and then peeled off their wet suits.

They wore South Korean army uniforms. The team leader, now wearing captain’s bars, studied the luminescent numbers on his wristwatch. Two minutes. It was time to go. He signaled the sentry back into the boat.

As the man struggled into his scuba gear and settled in at the helm, the others pushed the lightweight boat off the beach and around so that its bow pointed seaward. From the stern a specially quieted engine sputtered, then caught, and the boat slid out to sea through the surf. It submerged just offshore, leaving only a faint, rippling wake behind.

The captain smiled to himself. So far, everything had gone according to plan.
Liberator
had dropped them off at exactly the right position to make their run in to the beach, and Pyongyang’s information on the beach patrol schedules had been perfect. He dropped to one knee, unfolded a small map, and studied it with a small, shielded penlight.

Yes, they’d landed in the right spot. The fascists mined all but a few beach approaches that were carefully guarded at night, but there were always paths left through the minefields for use by sentries and patrols. One lay just a few dozen meters inland to the south.

He snapped off the penlight, folded his map, and rose to his feet. His men stood with him, slung their M16s, and picked up their waterproofed packs. There wasn’t any further point in acting furtively. They were now just another South Korean army unit patrolling the beach.

With the captain leading, they moved off into the darkness in single file. He kept his eyes on the ground in front as they walked. Sand. Sand mingled with clumps of grass. A small rise off to the right lined with barbed wire. There. Two short, red-flagged stakes marked the beginning of the path through the minefield—their path into the so-called Republic of Korea.

The eight men headed east, off the beach and onto the flat inland plain. They walked more quickly now, making sure only that they stayed between the pairs of stakes planted every few yards. The captain paused to check his watch again. Five minutes since they’d landed. They were still on schedule.

“Halt!” A high-pitched, nervous voice came out of the darkness ahead of them. The captain and his men froze. There wasn’t supposed to be a guard post on this path. Other raids and infiltrations were supposed to have distracted the imperialists’ attention away from this landing site.

‘Advance and be recognized.” This time the voice was accompanied by the sharp click of an M16’s safety being snapped off.

The captain kept his hands well away from the pistol holstered on his waist and stepped forward slowly. “Beach patrol. Captain Yi.”

A flashlight came on and centered on his face—blindingly bright. He blinked. “Get that light out of my face, you fools. And stop acting so surprised to see us.”

The flashlight went out. That was better. The captain could just make out a sandbagged foxhole a couple of meters ahead. He edged closer. There were two South Korean army privates in the foxhole, but only one had his rifle up and trained in the right direction. The other was nervously shifting a flashlight back and forth from one hand to the other. The captain smiled. They must be reservists hastily recalled to arms without adequate training.

“Sorry, sir. But we weren’t expecting a patrol for another hour.” Was the rifle barrel aimed at them starting to drop?

The captain took another step forward. “They’ve changed things around. Weren’t you notified?”

One hand reached slowly into his tunic and pulled out a short, broad-bladed commando knife.

The young South Korean soldier with the flashlight didn’t see it. The flashlight beam had ruined his night vision. “No, sir. I’m sorry about the light. I’m afraid you startled us.” The captain saw him turn and bend down to pick up an object. A field telephone? He tensed.

“I’ll just report you in to HQ, sir. That way the other outposts won’t be so jumpy.” The private lifted the receiver.

As he did, the captain lunged forward and down into the foxhole, shoving his knife into the man’s throat up to the hilt. Blood spurted out over his hand and uniform sleeve and the private gagged, frantically pawing at him before falling back limply against the sandbagged walls. The captain jerked his knife back out and wheeled to face the other sentry. But the man was already dying, his larynx crushed by a steel-tipped kick. The commando who’d delivered the kick grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. The captain grinned back.

He unfolded his map again, looking for their objective. He traced a line toward it, looking for potential obstacles. One road, a low rise, the village of Taech’ang proper. Nothing more than that. The Chosan River bridge lay just an eight-kilometer jaunt away. He smiled. He and his men would be in position in a matter of hours.

The captain put his map away and took his rifle back from another commando. He looked down at the dead South Korean sentries. The unexpected encounter had been an inconvenience, but it wasn’t necessarily a fatal one. They’d police the area to remove all signs of a struggle and carry the bodies away with them. With any luck the South Koreans would assume their men had simply deserted.

They wouldn’t think that for long, but the captain and his men didn’t need long. Besides, he doubted that the fascists would be able to find them anyway. After all, they’d be hiding in plain sight. He held the thought and started issuing the necessary orders. His commando force had a bridge to visit before the night was through.

______________
CHAPTER
33

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DECEMBER 31—SOUTH OF PARAN

The sound of the truck was comforting. They were moving south, and Anne could feel the distance between the war and her increasing, stretching thinner and lighter. She could also feel the pull of Kunsan. For everyone else it was just an intermediate stop on their way to Japan, but they didn’t have friends there.

Anne tried to eat her spaghetti and meatballs as they drove. Hutchins had handed her an “MRE” and told her it was dinner.

MRE stood for “meals, ready to eat” and was the U.S. Army’s replacement for the legendary “C” ration. It was a green plastic bag the size of a large book. Her first problem was tearing open the thick plastic. In the end she had to borrow Private Bell’s razor-sharp bayonet.

Inside were other pouches. One held the dinner, labeled “Spaghetti and Meatballs.” Another held dried fruit. There were other packages with cheese and crackers, utensils, and so on.

Hutchins had commented on her luck. The dinners were designed to be mixed with hot water, which was of course unavailable in a moving truck. The spaghetti dinner did not need water. There were other problems, though.

Whoever had designed the spoons had neglected the fact that she was digging into the large dinner pouch. Almost immediately her hand had become covered with sauce. It didn’t taste bad, but it was messy. She ate it slowly, to help pass the time.

She had looked at the map when they passed through Paran. From there to Kunsan was about 160 kilometers, a hundred miles. They were crawling, but even at ten miles an hour they would pull into Kunsan well before dawn.

She looked at the map, willing a straight and smooth path, and a warm one while they were at it. In the cold moonlight she could see the
snow-covered rice paddies stretching off on either side of the road. It was a peaceful, quiet scene, but she could see no comfort in it.

NEAR THE COAST HIGHWAY, SOUTH OF TAECH’ANG

The ground near the coast was flat, which Yi hated. Not a valley or a ridge to hide behind; the best they could get was a small gully that ran in the direction they were going. Much of the march had to be made in short rushes, with one team covering the other. It was slow and tiring work.

Each man was dressed in a South Korean Army winter uniform, but instead of the standard white camouflage smock, they wore black. They would put on the white ones later, when they were in position. Concealment was more important now.

They also carried M16 rifles with plenty of ammunition, and standard South Korean field packs. In addition, each man, Yi included, carried another thirty kilos of “special equipment.”

This was evidently a popular area, Yi thought. He had seen many signs for bathing beaches, hotels, cafes. Even covered with snow it was picturesque.

His musings were interrupted by the sergeant’s signal. All clear. Yi and his three men ran forward at a crouch, the light snow muffling their footsteps.

He fell flat next to Yong, the sergeant. Yong pointed silently out ahead, toward a gravel track stretching across their path. Frozen rice paddies lined the road on either side. They waited, watching the road for about ten minutes, seeing no movement. Yi held up one open hand, then clenched his fist and pumped it up and down. Four commandos ran across the road while Yi and his team covered them.

No sign of movement. He gave the signal and sprinted across the road, sure that Yong and his group were watching and covering him.

The coast road was his landmark. Once across it, they would turn south and head for the Chosan river. They would then follow the river inland to their target.

NORTH OF ONYANG, ON HIGHWAY 39

Anne was awakened by Bell, who was cursing again as they drove downhill. “Captain, the transmission’s getting worse. It’s even money whether I can get it out of first gear at the bottom of this hill.”

Hutchins had been asleep, too. He straightened up in his seat, stretching as much as the cramped cab allowed. He looked at the map while Anne held a hooded flashlight. They had made good progress, covering sixty-five kilometers from Anyang in about three hours.

The captain looked at his watch and made a decision. “We’ll pull into Onyang and stop for repairs. We have to gas up anyway, and we can fix the cooling system on that other five-ton truck, too.”

Bell smiled. Onyang was only a small town, but it would have decent food, maybe a few beers, a nap…

“Quit dreaming, Private. We’re going to fix these vehicles and get back on the road ASAP.” Hutchins’s tone was stern. Bell was one of the two men that had come from the stockade. He was a good soldier but would goof off any chance he could get. That’s why the captain had taken him as his own driver, so he wouldn’t get many chances.

Anne asked, “Captain, where will we get the vehicles fixed in Onyang?”

“We’ll have to find a civilian garage and hope he has the right parts. These trucks use a lot of parts from civilian vehicles, so—”

“I know about the parts, Captain. What I need to know is if they will have a phone I can use.”

Hutchins shrugged. “I guess so.”

Anne smiled.

AT THE CHOSAN RIVER BRIDGE

Captain Yi looked over the situation. They had followed the river east to Highway 21. The two-lane asphalt road was the major north-south artery on the west coast, and his job was to make traveling on that road a dangerous business.

A concrete bridge crossed the river, which was about twenty meters wide at that point and about three meters deep. The water was moving fast enough to keep it from freezing.

There was a low rise that overlooked the highway and the bridge. Yi’s squad waited about one hundred yards back, at the base of the rise, shivering. The bridge was guarded, of course, but this wasn’t a major bridge or a major river.

The area was lighted, so his binoculars were more useful than his night-vision scope. There was a small building near the bridge, big enough for a few men. A small sentry box at one end had two men near it.

From their uniforms they looked like Provincial Police, responsible for security in the Korean interior. The Army only guarded the coast. These police, though, were much more than “traffic cops.” For one thing, they carried M16 automatic rifles.

There was another man pacing back and forth between the building and the bridge. He was wearing a camouflage uniform, probably Territorial Army. It made sense, Yi thought. Back up the police with reserve units.

The soldier, probably a noncom, ducked under the gate and started across
the bridge. Yi moved his glasses ahead of him and saw what he expected: two sentries at the other end as well.

The commando crept backward down the slope, quietly, carefully, until he was about twenty-five yards back from the crest. He then spun around and sprinted down to where his men were hidden.

“It’s as we expected. Two at each end, one more in charge. The guard shack probably has two men in it, but no more than four. They are Provincial Police, so we have to change uniforms. Let’s go.”

The plan had been practiced a dozen times. Without instructions the party moved down to the water’s edge, well away from the bridge. They took out Provincial Police uniforms and changed clothes. One private removed a small bundle from his knapsack. Another removed a rope from his pack and tied one end securely around a tree.

There was a hissing sound, which seemed as loud as a steam leak in the quiet night. As the inflatable raft took shape, two men assembled paddles and tied the other end of the rope to the boat. They placed it in the water and climbed in.

Wordlessly they pushed off with their paddles and let the current carry them downstream. The other commandos slowed their progress by slowly letting out the rope, while the two men steered their way across.

In five minutes the boat was grounded on the opposite bank. Yi and the remaining men did not wait to watch them pull the craft into the bushes. They knew their job.

The captain brought his men back to the rise and pointed out their targets, then the approach route. The brush had been cleared around the road, but it almost reached to the guard shack. And nobody was watching the rear of the building.

There was nothing complicated about the approach to the building, but it was tiring. The dark made them slow down to a crawl, to reduce the chance of stumbling, and the biting cold made it hard to hold still. Yi was in front, not because of any desire to lead by example, but because there he could set the pace and react quickly to any changes.

It was hard work, even with the training. Pick each spot carefully, nothing that can make noise or cause you to stumble. Remember that five other men behind have to step where you step, careful that…

If he hadn’t been moving so slowly he would never have been able to stop. Moving in a low crouch, he had already raised his left foot to bring it forward when he saw a line across the snow. He froze. Any regularity had to be man-made, and anything made by man around here was a threat, until proved otherwise.

He leaned forward carefully, with his followers holding their uncomfortable positions behind him. As he changed his position, starlight caught the line and it glinted. It was a wire.

Following it back to its ends, he found one anchored to a rock, and the other to a trip flare. Not a mine, but almost as deadly to their mission. If he had touched the wire, it would have sent a magnesium flare fifty meters into the air. Without surprise they would fail without having started.

It was a simple device, and he quickly disarmed it. Pointing it out to the man behind him, he moved forward again.

Reaching the back wall of the building was a relief, a chance to stand up straight and pull off the black camouflage smocks. They put on white smocks, the same as those worn by the South Koreans.

From this point on everything depended on speed and luck. Yi watched the noncom walk back from the far side of the bridge. He had to wait until the bulk of the building was between the man and him.

His men had moved into position, flattened near the corners of the building. He took one last look and followed the movement of the South Korean noncom. The man passed out of sight and Yi raised a small flashlight. Shining it across the river, he flashed a coded signal, hoping his men were in position to see it. He started counting.

One. He put away the flashlight and pulled his pistol. Two. Yi checked the silencer as he moved to the corner of the building near the sentry box.

Three. Yi and two of his men fired at the two sentries, each man shooting two or three times, until they started to fall. He heard small
whup
sounds behind him, the rest of his team firing at the noncom. He looked across the bridge but could not see the two sentries there. Had they been killed, or just taken cover?

No shots, from this side or the other. Assume success. They stepped quickly out from behind the building, still hugging the walls. Yi relaxed a little when he saw three forms crumpled on the ground. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the guard shack.

The sergeant and another commando flattened themselves on either side of the door. Yong gave a signal, and they opened the door quietly and slid through. Yi did not follow, instead concentrating on the far end of the bridge.

There. A light shone briefly at the far end. Two short, one long. They’d done it!

Yong came running up just in time to see Yi smiling. He stopped and reported. “Three men. No problems.”

Yi didn’t waste any more time celebrating. “Get the bodies out of sight. Look for any papers or documents. Clean up any bloodstains. I’m going to see what’s in the guard shack.”

He looked around at the mayhem his men had caused, then allowed himself one more smile. “And Sergeant, get those sentry boxes manned. We’ve got a bridge to guard.”

For their side.

IN ONYANG

Hutchins cursed out loud. Bell cursed at the truck, Anne cursed to herself. Onyang was a town of about two thousand people. It had one garage, operated by a Mr. Moon, who absolutely refused to get up on a cold night and open his establishment. In the end Hutchins had to threaten him with arrest at bayonet point before Moon would cooperate.

Reluctantly the proprietor unlocked the door, but he absolutely refused to help in any way with the vehicles. Evans took over then. “All right, this is now a U.S. Army motor pool.”

While the sergeant organized the repairs, Anne’s staff took shelter in a small hotel, filling the small building. Anne found the night clerk, who spoke excellent English, far more helpful than Mr. Moon. He directed her to a phone, and she tried calling Tony. It was exciting, then frustrating, as she called his BOQ, then squadron offices, trying to reach him.

There was no answer at his BOQ. He was “not available, ma’am,” when she called the squadron. She knew that meant he was flying. All Anne could do was leave a detailed message saying where she was and that she should arrive in Kunsan a few hours after dawn, and that she was scheduled to be flown out to Japan that evening. The airman said Major Christopher would get the message as soon as he returned. She hung up.

The two broken-down vehicles barely fitted inside the garage. Anne stayed there, pacing and fuming inside as the time passed. She knew she should be fatalistic, but they’d lost half an hour just getting into the garage. They had been working for an hour since then.

The truck with the cooling problem had been easy to fix, but the other! Bell hadn’t imagined his problems with the transmission. Metal from worn gears had worn and chewed the works until the question was why it had worked at all. Bell, still cursing under the truck, wanted a new transmission.

They didn’t have one. Mr. Moon gleefully informed them of that, and that he had no parts for that kind of truck, and they could leave now, thank you.

Two hours later the convoy rumbled back onto the highway. Some of Anne’s frustration ebbed as the convoy left Onyang and started moving through the countryside.

Sitting in the dark cab, with Hutchins asleep on one side and the dark rice paddies on the other side, there was time to think. The airman had called him “Major” Christopher. She was pleased and proud for Tony, and for herself as well. She seemed to have picked someone with real ability and…